


Alone I dance the dance of the fallen

by Marvel_Patronus1



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Sacrifice, Season8, fallen!cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 16:13:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marvel_Patronus1/pseuds/Marvel_Patronus1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fallen, Castiel learns the dance of humanity</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alone I dance the dance of the fallen

There’s an itch on his left eyebrow. Out of desperation he ignores it until it consumes him, is all he can think about as he sits at a bust stop and drops his head. 

He itches hard enough that he bleeds. 

…

_There’s a sun shining over him, it burns brighter than anything has ever burned in its life. He can’t be sure if it’s exploding or birthing but whatever it is makes his eyes water with pain. However, as this sun burns as causes him to wince a hand slips in his, it’s gentle and warm and reassuring._

_“Close your eyes and trust me.” The voice says. “Just trust me.”_

_He does._

…

Being human is strange, uncomfortable.

There are blisters at the back of his feet from his shoes- they no longer feel as comfortable and supporting as leather should be. Rather they dig into his skin, rub against his socks until grey cotton threads are breaking and leaving ridged skin to rub against the worn leather. His shoulders ache and neck has kinks in it, the type that a simple roll of his neck doesn’t fix. He assumes it’s from spending so many nights pressed against a tree, his neck stiff as it supports his heavy head. There’s a dull itch in the back of his throat, which, if he ignores, turns his tongue to sandpaper- mouth so dry it cracks. Pains in his stomach that have it gurgling and moving in such a way that he wants to hurl, but nothing will come up. His head always feels sore; it aches behind his eyes and burns with each small movement.

He observes first. Feels stupid for not observing more of Sam and Dean’s human actions when he had the chance. The thought of the hunters leaves him aching in a different way so he tries to think of them for only a moment. His first two days as a human he watches other humans, sees them eating regularly, drinking, talking, socializing, washing- always washing. He watches, he takes note, he remembers, he does. 

But still, being human is difficult, especially at night when he succumbs to the call of sleep. During those times he doesn’t remember much- not the ache of his bones, the swell of his feet, the kinks in his neck, or the pain in his head. Instead, he remembers other things. Things that haunt him during the day, that have him waking whilst the stars still shine and the world remains silent. It terrifies him, leaves him sweating and panting and afraid to shut his eyes again. All of them come in flashing images, echoing words and sentences, faded faces that flash through his subconscious, memories that eat away at him. That’s not the worst part though. The worst part is the sound. The call that he can’t make out, the one that tugs at his soul, tries to grip at the spot his grace would be. It’s silent but there, a heavy presence that begs for him, cries for his attention and he tries. He tries so hard to grip it, to hold onto it in the depths of his mind long enough to listen. Each time he wakes up sweating and wide-eyed, terrified and desperate for that call, desperate for what it says. It has him up for the rest of the night, afraid to close his eyes and go back to the sleep that has him searching for it, that has him fearing as it begs for him.

Dean would call it a nightmare.

….

During the day he sits on the park bench that he will later sleep on. People stare at him as they pass. Whisper things, share looks and judge him. He can feel it as their gaze washes over his messy trench coat, shirt that’s stained yellow and his scruffy beard. It makes him feel nervous, their glances. Nervous and judged.

He already knew he didn’t belong- their looks just further criticized his unwanted presence.

“You should tie your shoelace.” Says a small voice, he spots blonde pigtails and a white bunny being held close to a young girls chest. She looks at him shyly.

“Pardon?” The little girl giggles, pulls on her pigtail and points at his black shoes.

“You should tie them.” He notices the way the string laces are untied, hanging loosely on each side of his foot. He frowns.

“I don’t know how.” The girl laughs again and sits next to him, taking off one of her own pink sneakers. 

“Come on, I’ll show you.” She stares at him pointedly and he blinks back. 

“Take off your shoe silly!” he does and she seems satisfied when he places it in his lap. The holes in his socks cause the cold air to shill the exposed skin of his foot. It feels nice for a moment, letting the air hit his bruised skin.

“Ok now watch. First you make bunny ears. Then the bunny goes around the tree and through the tunnel. Pull!” She says the soft rhyme with small actions. Twists and twirls of her fingers that leave a perfect bow on the top of her pink sneaker.

“You’re go!” He tries. Fails. Frowns.

“Say the rhyme.” She insists, so he undoes the knot and takes a deep breath.

“First you make two bunny ears. The rabbit goes around the tree…through…through the tunnel. Pull.”

“You did it!” He smiles down at her and then looks at the perfect bow on his shoe.

“I did.”

“Eloise! Come here now!” the sharp yell of a mother sounds across the way. The little girl looks nervous as her eyes spot her mother.

“I’m not meant to talk to strangers.” She whispers before running over to her mother. The older woman is glaring at Castiel; he knows what the glare is saying. It’s saying ‘stay away form my child.’ He wonders why humans don’t believe in kindness.

…

He has nowhere to go, at least nowhere near him. In the back of his mind, as he walks through the streets full of humans that ignore him, he knows that he’s looking for the brothers hide out. That he’s walking towards the home to the Men of Letters, the only place where he can pretend he belongs. Here he doesn’t belong. Amongst other people who look at his scruffy beard and dirty clothes and judge. Always the judgment. _Let he who is without sin, cast the first stone;_ humans, constantly believing they are the exception to every rule.

It’s raining the day he finds the homeless shelter. Above him the sky is dark, clouded and thundering as the ground shakes and rain pours, slams against the pavement in heavy drops and soaks his skin. He wonders about his brothers and sisters, misses them. Misses them more than he ever has. There’s a pang of sadness in him when he realizes that all of the feel this, this emptiness in their mind, the loneliness- angels are not meant to be lonely. Not really, rather there is meant to be a constant echo inside them. The call of each person’s grace, a pleasant hum in the back of the skull. Instead there is a silence; one so deafening it near drives him to madness. He’s thankful at this moment, when the rain is pouring and his blisters are bleeding, that he had the Winchesters, that for a moment in time he experienced some of humanity before he fell, before he was ripped from his grace and thrown to the ground. His brothers and sisters did not- well at least not all of them. Some of them, so new to heaven and the universe, had never even touched the soil of earth. He hopes they learn to survive. These are his thoughts when he comes across the large brick building; a sign is lit up reading ‘Free bed, free meal, free clothes.’ And a woman dressed in a yellow rain coat is standing out the front holding a flashlight. Castiel see’s her and stops, watches as she stands there in the rain and scans each person running by. Her flashlight lands on him and he blinks.

“Do you have a place to sleep tonight?” she asks softly, the kindness in her voice undeniable. Castiel shakes his head and the woman reaches out to him, her hand beckoning.

“Come inside sweetheart.” Castiel nods, walks over to her and lets her put an arm on his shoulder. She leads him inside the large brick building that has plastic floors and concrete walls. There’s a welcome desk and four doors. She takes him into the third one.

“What’s you’re name?” the woman asks and Castiel see’s her leaning over a large brown book, pen poised in her hand.

“Castiel.”

“I’m Alexis.” She holds out a hand and this time he takes it, shakes it, let’s go. She seems pleased. “Do you have a last name Castiel?” he pauses, does he? He’s not sure. The thought never really occurred to him. Who was he anyway? Was he still Castiel angel or the lord? Or perhaps was Castiel fallen amongst the humans.

“I only ask for records, incase anyone came asking after you. You don’t have to tell me of course.”

“Who would come asking after me?” he blurts out without thinking, the woman looks at him sadly and Castiel can sense her pity.

“Family?” Family. His family would hate him; if they found him they would burn him. He was an abomination to heaven, a stain in the world of the fallen. Lucifer would be glad to call him his brother.

“I don’t have any family.” The woman nods and puts the pen down, leaving it in the centre of the book.

“Come, let’s get you warm.” He follows, gets given grey tracksuit pants and a bright blue jumper. He switches his clothes begrudgingly, the faded trench coat and worn suit providing familiarity and comfort. When he comes out of the change room holding them, bundled up in his arms, Alexis reaches forward and takes them.

“We can wash and dry these for you if you would like?”

“Please.” Alexis nods, walks down a hallway and waits for him to follow. Her footsteps are soft against the floor and she walks without looking, her head snapping around and around as she takes in the walls, the people passing them, the thermostat. He wonders if she lives here or just volunteers.

“This here is the laundry room. You’re welcome to use it to wash whatever you own.”

“I own nothing.”

“S-sorry.” She stutters out, flushing. Castiel wants to tell her that it’s alright but the words are blocked in his throat. He has no ability to be compassionate or reassuring without sounding patronizing so he just gives her this small smile and she returns it.

“Ok so this is the washing machine.” He nods and watches as she puts powder into a small container and then throws his clothes in. She puts it on a light wash and tells him he should eat while they’re cleaning, that in an hour he can come and put them in the dryer. He doesn’t bring up that he has no idea who to use a dryer.

“Where are you from Castiel?” Heaven. A place that is now empty of divine life, that will slowly turn to mayhem because the angels are no longer present. Their grace no longer fuels your dreams and protects your sleep.

“Kansas.” He tells her instead.

“What are you doing in New York?” he shrugs.

“I did something…wrong and ended up a long way form home.” Alexis looks as though she’s heard that story a thousand times, the sad wistful look on her face telling him she wishes she heard it less. For some reason though, he thinks that his story might be a little different.

“We all do the wrong thing sometimes, but God is the only one who can judge us.” Castiel fights back the snort; God left this place a long time ago.

The mess hall is a large room full of metal tables with white chairs and people dressed in the same type of tracksuits and jumpers he is. Along one wall is a long gap in it that shows five people wearing hairnets and dishing soup into a bowl, topping it with bread and a warm drink. He walks over and grabs a try, his stomach gurgles at the sight of the food.

“Chicken or pumpkin?” the woman asks.

“Pumpkin.” Someone says for him. He turns to see a  young boy, perhaps sixteen, standing behind him.

“Chicken isn’t that great.” Castiel nods and the woman is smiling at the boy, a fond look on her face.

“Pumpkin.” He says and a thick orange liquid is ladled into his boy.

“You can sit with me if you want.” The boy tells Castiel and then walks off. He follows him to one of the long tables where they sit across form one another.

“Never seen you around here before.”

“I’m new.” He tries the soup, it warms his body, makes his mouth salivate. He wants to pick up the bowl and pour it down his throat. 

“Don’t worry about this place, it’s one of the good ones. Alexis knows what she’s doing.” Castiel isn’t sure why he would have needed to worry, but he smiles at the boy and keeps eating his soup anyway. The warm liquid calms him in a way nothing has before. It slides through his body all the way down to his numb toes and leaves a happy feeling in his mouth. He keeps using his spoon until it can’t collect the last streaks that line the white bowl. That’s when he picks up the bread. Uses each strip to mop up the remainder of the thick sweet liquid, savors each bite and wonders when he’ll eat like this again. 

“If you go to Rosa she gives you seconds.” The young boy tells him. Castiel looks over to where he’s pointing. An elderly woman with greying hair, wrinkled skin and a warm smile as she keeps filling bowls with soup. He counts to eighteen before going to get another one. 

When he looks around the room at all the other people eating he wonders if any of them are like him. If amongst him are some of his fallen brothers and sisters. He shouldn’t want to find them, they’d surely have his head for the crimes he’s committed against heaven, Lucifer would be proud to call him his brother. Still, there’s wistfulness there, a desire for someone to understand him.  Part of him wishes that he could sense who was an angel, who was fallen, but reality says he can’t. There is no grace to sense; instead he has to wonder who amongst him could be one of a fallen. Who sits in this room staring at their plate with disgust but also need, the silly need that tells them they must eat or die. He craves the hum of their whispered words in the back of his mind, their voices singing to one another as he walks to earth and hunts, helps the Winchesters, acts fallen but is still an angel.

He is fallen.

That night he lies in a creaky cot and stares at a peeling ceiling. There are others sleeping around him, soft snores and moans and groans filling the room as people sleep away. He can smell the sickly stench of body odor, the one that tells him people haven’t had the chance to wash and live in their own filth. Outside is the steady beat of the rain and the harsh strike of thunder. He counts between each clap, the seconds getting closer and closer together before there is no gap. Just thunder ricocheting over him as he lies there in the creaky coat and tries to find sleep, his last thought is if it’s raining in Kansas.

…

The next morning before he leaves Alexis gives him warm clothes and a booklet with lists of other homeless shelters across America. She circles all the ones that ‘are maybe a little better than others but we’re not meant to say that.’. She also gives him three pairs of socks, some white sneakers, and a backpack that has band aids, a canteen, blanket and packs of dehydrated food. She tells him to be safe and pray because God will find home for all his children.

He manages to fight the urge to tell her that God is the reason he has no home.

…

On a Thursday he stands on a busy street. He remembers watching his day pass by in heaven, watch as humans prayed for help and life went on. In the millisecond that was Thursday in heaven, he felt alive. Now when he looks up at the clear bright blue sky he wishes for a moment that he could fly again. Stretch out his wings, let the feathers dance in the breeze and just fly, soar through this earth invisible to the human eyes. To once again exist within the plane between heaven and man. He aches for it. In his soul he can feel his missing wings. They aren’t still there like they were before, crammed together and just out of his reach. A silent untouchable presence that, although frustrating, was reassuring. Now they’re missing, not even humming there on his back. They’re just gone, almost as if they never existed. He misses them, their weight and grace filled presence, the silky feel of each individual feather, the way they twitched and shivered in the light, soaking it in desperately. The most painful part about it all though was that he didn’t feel them missing. It didn’t feel like there was a gaping hole in between his shoulder blades, like someone had pulled out one of the most essential parts of his beings. No, rather they were just a memory. This body didn’t understand the wings. Not at all, this body had no grace and the wings…they were an echo of his grace. All he had now where memories. 

“That’s the Chrysler building” he hears a mother tell her child. He looks over to the small boy. _My true form is approximately the size of your Chrysler building._ He would have been able to cradle the child in his hand, hold it tightly and securely as he soared through the world. He looks up at the building. It’s so tall and regal, demanding of power. For a moment he feels so insignificant as he stands there at the foot of it, small and alone and inexplicably human.

…

_He sits on the couch in the home of the men of letters. Dean is sitting next to him, his body letting off a pleasant warmth that Castiel craves, the energy that roles off the male hunter fills him. On the television someone falls over and Dean laughs. It’s beautiful his laugh. Deep and throaty and warm. It causes his heart to flutter in his chest and his hand to twitch. He moves to cover Dean’s hand with his own and the hunter stops laughing, those green eyes that are speckled with gold turn to him and look sad. So, so sad._

_“Come home to us Cas.”_  

He wakes in the park, the sun still down but the birds signing. There’s another kink in his neck and he sighs, cracks his jaw, knuckles, back. Stretches his arms above his head and sighs.

Today when he walks, he walks towards them.

…

He always knew he had been different.

From the day he was created- his grace flowing through him-he knew that he was different. Whether it be due to the fate that awaited him or the eyes he saw the world through he can’t be sure. 

He remembers the day he was made. Suddenly just existing and knowing. Knowing everything in a way that made you assume you had never known it. There were no parents holding him and taking photos, no father to proudly boast. Rather he had just suddenly _been_. Standing in a room amongst other angels, blinking confusedly before the thought came _I am Castiel an angel of the lord, warrior of heaven._ And so as it was willed it became. He existed and knew all there was to know- even if he thought he didn’t. When a question was asked his way the answer slid from his lips leaving him surprised but also relieved. An angel who didn’t know was no angel at all. He remembers his first flight, something he felt nervous about until his wings spread and angled through the wind like they had never known a life before flight. This is how it was for him; a guardian of heaven to a race that did not existed. Then suddenly his father had clapped, a sound echoed through heaven in a way it never would again and angels whispered bout the cause and gossiped about the meaning and then it was clear, their father was creating a world. From the clouds of heaven he saw through blurry dimensions a burst of brilliant light. Planets and stars throwing themselves across the galaxy and suddenly the universe was just there. It existed in a way nothing ever had before. There was beauty all around, trees and water and the sun and stars, animals that lived off the land without demanding too much of it. For years the earth just was, the animals being the life and the water flowing and the angels watching the glorious painting their father had made them. But then, weather out of boredom or desire for power, their father had done more. He had decided to create a child. One that would have the obedience of an angel trapped within the heart of the land. A child that wasn’t made for war but rather life.

To the angels such a thought was absurd; no obedience was an unheard of through. Yet his father willed it and as he was God it was true.

First came the Leviathans, horrible things made from dirt and dust that had souls as black as night. They crawled over the earth and skittered around it. With spite they destroyed it, the life that breathed there melting away under their sickly touch. Their father, once he saw what he had made, created another world for them. One that contained life but begged forgiveness. A world for those who had no grace sown into their hearts. 

With a shiver Castiel wonders if purgatory is where he will be again. 

The humans were an accident, a monkey gone terribly wrong in a way that seemed so right. They walked the earth with respect and honor. Their hearts were pure and contained the grace that was their soul. But then their father had an idea. 

“My children” he had said. “Go forth unto this world and make it your own for you are my children and I am your father and for you this I have created.” And they did. These humans lived upon the world and found God present and then their free will was discovered and they turned to destruction. 

It was on the day of a fire across the flowers his father made that Castiel heard it. And as he heard it he knew he would never hear it again. The voice of God, regal and eternal echoed through his mind. ‘Castiel the angel you shall now be the holder of Thursdays. Watch this day as I have watched it.’

And he did.

For one millisecond he did.

In one millisecond he was the everything to them, the representative of a father he had never seen, a father that demanded so much of him and gave nothing in return, assuming that respect and obedience where one in the same. Castiel watched the rise of humanity, watched the fall of religion and the mayhem of humans that had no obedience to one God. He watched as Lucifer tempted them and God let it happen, he remembers wondering why God would let his children suffer. He watched when Lucifer expressed his jealousy, when he declared his father did not love them and was banished to hell by Michael. Whilst his own home and family turned to chaos and destruction the earth continued and he felt angered. Angered for the demise of his own home was all for the safety of theirs.

He watched a fish that he was warned not to step on crawl out of the sea and become part of a line that would lead to his own fall.

 _“Don’t step on that fish Castiel, big plans for that fish.”_ He remembers a brother saying- who he cannot recall, just one brother telling him to be cautious. To avoided the scaly grey fish as it painfully slithered up onto the dry rough sand and sucked in a choking breath. 

“Were those plans worth that fishes life brother? The birth of the Winchesters, the absence of our father, my own fall and questioning of faith that all led to the destruction of our home? Has it been worth the life of that one fish?” Of course there is no answer, there will never be a prayer answered again. Not with God walking the earth undetected and angels suffering under humanity. For once the prayers that are mocked really have no one listening.

He wishes he had stepped on that fucking fish.

…..

It’s hard to tell who amongst him is like him. Which human on the street isn’t just a strange human but an angel that’s tumbled from the stars. He watches from the alley ways though, tries to see himself in the others that wander the streets lost and alone. For him, each struggling human is a fallen brother, whether they once housed grace or not. When he looks in their eyes and see’s the plead to belong, the desperation to just fit in somewhere, he feels a connection, a tingling of his soul that tells him he also belongs there. That he’s part of them just as they’re part of him. He doesn’t belong anywhere, not here on earth but not in heaven either. On days when he walks towards Kansas, towards the Winchesters, he wonders if they’re also walking towards him, if they’re searching for him because they miss him and want him to belong He wonders but he doesn’t hope, he’s past hope. I was hope that made him volunteer to save Dean, hope that lead him to fall the first time, hope that caused him to pull Sam from the pit, hope that had him making a deal with Crowley, that housed the Leviathans in his vessel, hope that caused him to trust Metatron and try to restore his home…all that hope that lead to devastation. The lack of hope in him causes the reality to be clear, the truth is that no one is looking for him. Not the Winchesters, nor his siblings- well at least not the ones that want him alive and healthy. He’s alone in this world, a lost soul doomed for Lucifer’s grasp when his organs fail and the hunger becomes too much.

He’s nothing. No one. Alone.

….

He’s huddled behind a trashcan in an alley when he hears the voices. Hidden by other peoples rubbish he can’t be seen and he’s glad. Footsteps echo through the alley way and then stop, there’s shuffling a sigh and then the whisper. 

“One of the vermin dared to give me money…almost as if they pitied me.”

“Pity is a sign of God brother.”

“We must kill them Eanus, show them we are in charge.” 

“There are too few of us Valoel, the humans would destroy us.” 

“You’re wrong, we outnumber them. I know we do. We must just find our own kind. Search for them.”

“You do not know  what you speak of Hadraniel, you call genocide.” 

“Perhaps I don’t brother, but what I do know is I was once the majesty of God, I stood at the second gate in heaven and now I am reduced to this.” 

“We must rebel.”

“Valoel, please…we mustn’t encourage this.”

“We have a duty to find our siblings brother, to reunite one another.” 

“All our brothers?”

There’s a snort.

“If we find Castiel on this earth we will torture him as he has us. In all our divinity we will destroy him.” 

“We are not divine brother. We are human.” 

“No. We are not this vermin. This filth. This world our father made is disgusting and crawling with dirt. That is not us, even without our grace we are regal.”

There is a reply of silence and the footsteps echo again, leading out of the alleyway.

…

_There’s a field. Its grass is long and green, untouched by the hand of man. Trees line the sides and stretch far over a hill. If he stands on the tips of his toes he can see the shimmer of a grey lake in the bright sun. He doesn’t need a swim though. Scattered throughout the field are yellow flowers and dandelions that move with the wind. He kneels to look at one, watch the small feathery dandelion seed, wonders what they must feel like. His hand reaches out to pluck one from the ground so he can blow it, watch them dance through the air, but another hand stops him._

_“Don’t blow.” He turns and watches Dean, his eyes so bright in the sun, freckles so clear. He swallows._

_“Why?” Dean moves closer, their arms touch._

_“If you pick it the seeds won’t grow again. You should blow on it from the ground.” Dean holds the dandelion by it’s stem and gives a soft blow, half of the seeds floating up through the long grass blades and into the sky above._

_“What about the other half?” Dean smiles, presses his lips close to his ear._

_“That’s yours. Make a wish.” He does, sucks in a deep breath and blows. Watches as his own half flows up into the air as well, joining Dean’s wish and tying them together._

_“What are you doing in my dreams?” He asks and Dean shrugs, they both look up at the bright sun, it’s blinding._

_“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and right doing there is a field. I’ll meet you there.” Their hands link._

_“Would you?”_

_“I’m your Dream Cas.”_

_He never wants to wake up._

He does. 

…

Sometimes he thinks of Dean.

He knows he shouldn’t because the hurt is too much. The thoughts peel away the bandages he’s used to cover the gaping hole in his chest, to stop the bleeding of his soul.

But on days like this, when he’s woken from a dream that continues to hover around his conscious thought he can’t not think of him. The dream isn’t one he’s a stranger too, and Dean visiting his dreams isn’t foreign either. He remembers the first dream he had as a true fallen angel. One that didn’t even have the whispered hum of grace inside him. He remembers staring at a bright sun, eyes burning and then a hand. Just a warm hand and the words ‘trust me’. He did as well, inexplicably his dream self trusted this foreign person. Each night he trusted him until the burning sun cleared and Dean’s face could been seen in the dull light. Castiel couldn’t tell you what it meant, the dreams, he wouldn’t have been able to as an angel and he definitely can’t as a human. What he does know is that in his nightmares Dean is the saving grace and on nights that his demons don’t haunt him, Dean slips in. It makes him miss Dean, he misses him so much- to a point where tears can well in his eyes and there’s a sharp stabbing in his chest. 

He misses Dean, that much he can say. He misses the hunters insight, the way he cared even though he wouldn’t admit it, his soft smile, the feel of his hand- strong and large- on his shoulder, his eyes that held so much love even when his expression screamed hurt. He misses the silent comfort of his friend and craves it like he’s never craved anything before. He believes sometimes that part of it is because of the piece of his soul that’s missing. The small sliver that snapped off into Dean all those years ago. Some would say it was his grace that left the mark on Dean’s skin. He knows it wasn’t though, he had felt it, felt that soul grip his own so tightly and desperately. _“Please. Please.”_ Dean had whispered too him as he flew through hell, slaying demons and shedding his own blood. Castiel had gripped him tighter, so much tighter; until his soul had merged with Dean and the only way to separate it was to break some off. For a human that would be excruciating, to break off part of your soul and let another keep it would cause nothing but pain and anguish, as an angel Castiel had his grace to cover it. Now though, he didn’t. With each breath he could feel the horrible ache. The absolute pain of his soul yearning for it’s missing piece. A piece he could only find in Dean that was now lost. At night he screams for it, thrashes as he sleeps and sometimes he hears it calling. Almost like an unheard prayer he can hear it in the very back of his mind, absolutely unreachable and so far away. He hears his own soul begging for them to reunite and he can’t. So he moves on and tries not to think of Dean. Tries not to think of the desperate calling that follows him, nor the man he had stitched together. The man who he had taken and saved, whose body was torn apart and he had fixed. Every single cell he had remade, put together in perfect shape so that it formed the masterpiece that was Dean Winchester. He remembers it all every second and chooses to ignore it. Ignore the way he calls for Dean, the way he saved Dean and, of course, Dean’s plea of please. Over and over again he ignores it.

Especially when he had gripped Dean tighter and whispered back _“Trust me”,_ because it was Dean’s undying trust in him that got him here in the first place.

…

One day he thinks he should hunt.

He doesn’t.

…

Castiel learns the voice of the homeless through his journey. Within each town he visits he finds a shelter, gets given food and water, a bed, new socks, clean clothes, his own clothes cleaned and extra food for his journey. He see’s the way they interact, avoiding one another and yet coming together as a community. The children are protected by the older wiser men of the streets, never alone despite the obvious abandonment, the elderly walk with the kindness of age, support the younger ones and disregard their own discomfort. There’s no hate, even though you would think there was. People are courteous of one another; they see their own suffering and acknowledge it in others. 

Castiel finds that the shelters he resides in is the only place he finds God.

…

Jimmy is gone from him. He hopes that he’s in heaven now, being welcome to a world of eternal peace all free from suffering. There was a time when he shared this body, when instead of it being something he relied on it was just a vessel. A place he visited when he needed the assistants of the brothers. Now though, it’s empty except for him. No Jimmy reminding him that occasionally having some water is ok and that a burger every now and then isn’t a bad thing. There’s no thoughts that occasionally mingle with his own and tell him a secret, there’s nothing really, just him and the responsibility of surviving without someone else’s instruction. It’s frightening really, absolutely terrifying because he’s suddenly so alone and has no idea what to do. He used to rely on Jimmy’s memories; he would tap into childhood, adolescence, adulthood, and marriage life, fatherhood. Now though all those memories and experiences are gone. They finished with the human that housed them and Castiel has nothing to refer to. No life to watch and imagine as his own, no experiences that help him understand humanity, absolutely nothing.

There is absolutely nothing in there but him and he has no idea what to do.

…

 

Castiel has no identity.

To the people at the shelters he is just that, Castiel. No Last name even though they ask for one.

 He feels that maybe he should change his name, but he doesn’t even know who he is. A lost angel on a journey to find two men who might not even want him doesn’t seem good enough. The truth is he’s a wandering soul with no direction and no purpose.

There is really nothing in this life for him, even if he did find the Winchesters the chances of them keeping him are slim to nothing. He’s useless without his grace, alone, afraid and ready to die. 

His name is Castiel and he is no one.

…

He goes to mass once on a Sunday.

It’s uncomfortable and he stands at the very back in the shadows of the corner of the church. Mothers see him and hold their children a little closer, their handbags tighter, people avoid him and the smell that radiates from his unclean clothes and itchy skin. They don’t make eye contact and smile, nor do they offer a hand during the sign of the peace. They act as though he is a spot on the wall that no one wants to clean. During the mass, when it becomes evident he’s not welcome, he stares up at the crucifix of the son. The one who contained each angels grace in his human soul as he walked the tortured earth. He remembers the cries and screams as he was tortured at his own brothers hand and the light that filled each angel when he rose to heaven. He stares at the empt brown eyes above the priest and sighs.

 _This is what you died for,_ he thinks, _this is what your humanity was sacrificed for- a world that doesn’t believe and a father that no longer exists._

At the end of mass he sits in the confessional room for an hour and doesn’t say anything. When the priest asks him what he has to confess he says nothing and starts to wonder if the mistakes he’s made are his own or his fathers.

Really there’s no answer.

…

They find him on a Monday. The day doesn’t have any significance, but for some reason it’s important. He’s in Ohio, about to sign into a shelter for the cold night, his frame shaking from the heavy rain.

“Name?” the man asks. 

“Castiel. No last name.” he’s used to the routine by now.

“Castiel?”

“Biblical.”

“We had two blokes coming in and asking about a Castiel yesterday.” He pauses, thinks of the two brothers who, in his imagination, are searching for him.

“What were they like?” The man shrugs, frowns, crosses his arm as if he’s trying to remember. Castiel thinks human gestures are weird, he still does them anyway.

“One was pretty tall, long hair- bit too long for a fed if you ask me. Other tall but short compared to the big guy. Seemed nice enough, pretty desperate when they asked.” Tall. Feds. Long hair. He thinks of Dean, of Sam who play dress up to solve cases, hope swells in the pit of his stomach. 

“You know them?” the guy asks and he nods. 

“Look man we don’t want any trouble here.”

“Not like that. I know them personally. They’re like my brothers…were like my brothers. I’m not sure. It’s been a while.” 

“Well they seemed pretty intent on finding you. Said that you’d know where to look.”

“Do you have a phonebook?” He asks and the man nods, going to get him one. 

‘Greens and Pillows’ motel is run down, Cas can smell the sewerage and hear the rats run across the roof. His stomach clenches at the thought of the beady-eyed rodents.

“What can I do for ya?” a woman with lipstick on her teeth asks, she smacks her gum together and eyes him with interest. 

“I’m looking for Jim Rockford.” 

“And are you family sweetheart?” again that word, he wonders what it means…right now his real family want to kill him, his brothers and sisters intent on slaughtering him.

“Something like that.” She smirks, looks down at the computer screen, smacks her gum around some more.

“Room 248.” He nods, doesn’t say thank you and leaves, feeling her eyes follow him. Room 248 is up two flights of rusted stairs and halfway down the long veranda. The eight is missing form the door and the door handle looks worn with use. The gold paint having peeled away to leave a rusty brown. If he listens close enough, inside, he can hear the soft whispers of the brothers, a chuckle from Sam, the hum of the television as background noise whilst they work. He thinks about knocking, about rapping his fist against the door twice, listening as the room changes, hearing the heavy footsteps of Dean’s boots, the sound of locks unclicking- all except the chain that allows only a little bit of light to enter the room, enough time to eye up their visitor without letting him in. He wonders if they’ll be happy- the man as that homeless shelter told him they would be. The pain he’s caused the brothers flows through his mind, the lies, the deceit, the fallen angels he’s left them with, the mess of worlds collided, the pain, the suffering.

All his wrong doings that reflected on them.

He doesn’t have a chance to turn away, the door swings open, laughter stops and he’s staring at Dean. Eyes green and wide and face pale.

“Cas?” he whispers, lifting a hand that gently touches his cheek. Cas shivers and sees the happiness shine in Dean’s eyes.  

“Cas.” Dean repeats again, no longer a question but a statement. There’s such shock in his green eyes, shock and happiness and pain as he rakes his gaze over Castiel’s fading body. He wonders what he must look like to the hunter. If Dean can see the pain in his feet, the ache in his shoulders, the bones that he feels under his withered skin.

“Dean.” He replies and then the hunter is grabbing him, gently tugging on him and pulling him close.

“Thank God you’re alright.” Dean breathes against his neck, holding his frail body tighter to his chest.

For the first time ever Cas cries in happiness.

 

**End of Part I**

 


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